


No Words

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kid is just so... damn... bendy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written to celebrate reaching 100+ watchers at LJ's sexy-right community, which I co-mod. Wheee! (No point. Just fluff'n'smut.)
> 
> * * *

When Matt first expressed his interest – by suddenly propelling himself over the kitchen table and sticking his tongue down John's throat, an act that resulted less in passionate reciprocity and more in John choking on a mouthful of pasta – John had his misgivings. 

There was no doubt that he felt the same way about the kid, even though he'd first tried to deny it and then tried to hide it. In the weeks after the fire sale he'd done his best to stay away, yet he found himself at the door of Matt's new place at least once a week, with a pizza or a six pack or a movie. He'd try not to touch, but couldn't help squeezing Matt's shoulder when he passed the back of the sofa, or grabbing his arm when Matt flailed about some supposed injustice, or smoothing his flyaway hair when Matt pulled off his ski cap in the foyer of the rundown diner they'd taken to visiting for lunch every other Sunday. 

He sat up too many nights in the lumpy armchair in his darkened living room and berated himself as a dirty old man, but the words just bounced off the walls. And when his hand drifted to his dick it was still Matt's plump lips and lean torso and tight ass he saw in his mind's eye. 

When Matt came over for dinner he tried not to watch the kid too closely, tried to remind himself of all the reasons it couldn't work. And when Matt launched his surprise attack – after John stopping gagging on rice noodles and Matt stopped laughing hysterically – he tried to explain all of those reasons to the kid. Matt shot all of them down, logically and reasonably, then reached inside John's jeans and drew out his cock. Shortly thereafter John couldn't even remember his name, never mind why being with Matthew Farrell was a bad idea.

Oh, there are disadvantages. Matt stays up half the night shooting monsters on his computer screen and thinks pop tarts make a perfectly nutritious dinner. John finds dirty sweat socks on the kitchen counter and various electronic parts that he couldn't name even with a gun to his head on every other available surface. A poster of some blond with stringy hair appears in the hallway; plastic dolls wearing Day-Glo tights line the mantel.

But there are advantages, too. Like the way Matt's enthusiasm is infectious, and the way his brain fires on so many different cylinders that John can barely keep up with the thoughts that go through his head. The way he gets up every morning to eat breakfast with John – usually making it himself, and before Matt came along John can't remember the last time he started his day off with more than a cup of joe – even if he _has_ been up half the night shooting monsters on his computer.

And the kid is just so… damn… bendy.

John shifts a little, smoothes a hand along Matt's calf and pushes to urge Matt's knee up even higher on the bed. They've been doing this for a while, and Matt's skin is a slick sheen of sweat, Matt's hair plastered to his forehead, lips moving. John has long given up trying to understand what Matt murmurs in these moments, when John's fingers are buried inside him, when John has been working him with hands and tongue and teeth, keeping him on the knife edge, making him writhe. He prefers to gauge Matt's pleasure in other, subtler ways: by the way his dick twitches when he mouths the smooth pale skin of Matt's inner thigh; by the arch of his back and the flutter of thick lashes when John finds that spot inside him, just right, and strokes it relentlessly; by the crescent shaped indentations that mark his shoulders, scratches that John will cover with undershirt and T-shirt and leather jacket and will still feel imprinted on his skin, scratches that he let his fingertips graze while sitting at work under the pretense of rubbing a stiff muscle, scratches that he will get hard from seeing reflected in the mirror in the dim yellow bathroom light at the end of the day.

It's when John removes his fingers and kneels between Matt's legs, plunges into that heat, that he understands the whispered words that fall from Matt's lips. John lowers his mouth to Matt's nipple and licks; sucks bruises to the surface of Matt's neck that Matt will admonish him for later. He knows that there is still twenty-five years and a lifetime of experience that separate them, that the odds aren't in their favour, that despite what the songs say love sometimes isn't enough. He presses his lips together, thrusts deeper, snaps his hips faster, and won't – can't – say the words back.

But when Matt smiles at him sleepily across the breakfast table and he can't help grinning back, John thinks he hears them anyway.


End file.
